So maybe that was four degrees from Cara, but it really didn’t matter. Because three days after the little run-in with Lang at the park, Vivi drove under the world-famous arches of the Paramount Studios lot, flashed her license to a security guard, and headed for the set of Jehovah’s Witness, the legal thriller Cara was wrapping this week.
The end-of-filming schedule was perfect, no doubt forced by the star herself, giving her the ability to disappear for a few weeks following the Academy Awards this coming weekend. Although all five of the nominated actresses had made public statements that they were not the least bit concerned about the folklore of a Red Carpet Killer or Curse, they’d all somehow managed to clear their calendars for the next six weeks.
All five women had a life-or-death reason to not want that statuette on their mantel.
Of course they wanted it, Vivi mused as she parked and followed the directions Bridget had given her to the set. Who wouldn’t want to achieve that pinnacle of success? But they also wanted to be safe, and live to enjoy it, which was why Vivi’s idea was such a good one.
If Cara liked the body-double strategy, it could set up the Guardian Angelinos as one of the most sought-after security firms in the country. And, dream of dreams, if there really was a Red Carpet Killer and Vivi lured and caught him—bingo! They’d be made.
Besides, Vivi’s investigator’s instinct told her there was no real threat, making the assignment easy money and a brilliant career move.
Screw Lang and his pessimism. This was a risk, but as Uncle Nino would say, you can’t get the good fruit if you don’t go out on a limb. And he’d be right.
Worse things had happened to Vivi, and she’d weathered them. Pretty much.
She ran a hand over her smooth hair, purposely combed and gelled down into a tame style that went along with her simple skirt and jacket, both borrowed from her best friend Sam, the woman who someday soon would be marrying her brother, Zach.
Vivi scanned the lot, passing the commissary and turning a corner that opened up to several large white buildings, each marked with studio numbers. People milled about, a few on foot, some on golf carts, the pavement warm from the California sun under the soles of Vivi’s brand-new and horrifically uncomfortable high-heeled shoes. She spotted her makeup artist contact striding toward her, all long skinny legs in pencil jeans and flying platinum hair.
Bridget looked more like a movie star than some of the real stars, but, then, so did damn near every woman in Los Angeles.
Lang would love it here in the land of milk and honeys.
“Hey,” Bridget called as she approached, not slowed by even higher heels. “Sorry, I was stuck on the set.”
When they reached each other, Bridget gave Vivi air-kisses on both cheeks, then leaned back, assessing Vivi.
“Good look for you,” she said, all professional and serious. “But we’re going with Plan A. We really have to blow Cara away.”
“I’m ready,” Vivi assured her.
“So am I. She’s doing a scene that will definitely go ten takes, on an inside set, so we have an hour. Let’s go clear her trailer and get it done.”
“Have you told her anything?” Vivi asked.
“Just that I have a solution and asked her to consider it, no matter how off the wall. Beyond that, I think it’s better if she sees you exactly as we planned: in full Cara costume.”
The “trailer” was hardly a doublewide. Set off from the rest of a row of motor homes along the side of a long parking lot, Cara’s “dressing room” stood two stories high and at least seventy feet long. A husky guard lingered outside the entrance but said nothing as Bridget and Vivi breezed by him.
Sloppy, Vivi thought. If he worked for the Guardian Angelinos, he’d have asked for ID.
Inside the trailer, it was as bright as sunshine with shades of yellow on every wall, floor, and seat. Classical music played from invisible speakers, the notes competing with the high-pitched yelp of a dog. A copper-colored dachshund leaped off a leather sofa and launched at Vivi’s feet, barking, panting, and circling her with suspicious dark eyes and the strangest hint of a limp.
“Stella!” Bridget said, trying to appease the little dog. “Hush.”
Vivi reached down to give the dog a cursory hello and got a low, throaty growl in response.
“Don’t mind Stella,” Bridget said. “She basically hates anyone who isn’t Cara. But she doesn’t bite.”
“It’s all right.” She looked around, taking in the living area that had been divided between a luxurious sitting room and kitchen on one side and a makeup station on the other. Half of the marble countertop was used to display Styrofoam heads covered with black wigs of various lengths and styles.
Another woman walked in from a back room, shutting her phone with an officious snap as she zeroed in on Vivi.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “There wasn’t an appointment on Ms. Ferrari’s book.”
“She’s with me,” Bridget said. “Vivi, this is Marissa Hunter, one of Cara’s personal assistants.”
“Not one of them.” Marissa threw a contemptible look at Bridget, but then rearranged her rather plain features into a fake smile. A small space between less-than-pearly teeth didn’t make her any prettier, but it did detract from an unattractive frown line between her dark brows. “I’m the assistant.”
Bridget just gave Vivi a little nudge toward a small stairway. “We’ll be upstairs in wardrobe. When I come down, Marissa, you’ll be gone. That’s not a suggestion.”
Vivi followed her up spiral stairs to a second floor. There the walls were lined with handrails full of hanging outfits all displayed face out, with shoes, bags, and jewelry next to each on individual tables. A platform rose from the center of the room, directly between two three-way mirrors.
Stella tip-tapped on long nails right into the room, still eyeing Vivi with distrust.
“Get up on the dressing stage,” Bridget said, gesturing to the platform. “Let me pick something that is totally Cara. Then we’ll do hair and makeup downstairs when Marissa’s gone. She can be a real pain, but not as bad as Joellen, who’s usually sprawled out on the sofa, half toasted.”
“Joellen Mugg is Cara’s sister, right?” Vivi had spent days reading everything she could get her hands on about Cara Ferrari.
“Correct.” She considered, then passed on a whole series of lawyerly-looking outfits that were probably costumes from the current film. “There are a few of us who form a human wall around Cara. And, of course, Stella Dallas, the four-legged toddler.”
At the sound of her name, the little dog circled the platform, nothing but dislike in her glassy brown eyes.
“I guessed wrong, then,” Vivi said. “I figured Stella from A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Wrong movie, but the right idea. And that pooch’ll be our litmus test. If we can fool Stella Dallas, then we can fool anyone.”
Vivi gave the dog a tight smile. “Can we fool you, little hot dog?”
The dachshund growled low, settling down to watch for one false move. There’d be no fooling Stella.
“I’ve seen that dog with Cara in pictures,” Vivi said to Bridget, stepping up to the raised platform. “They’re pretty attached.”
“At the hip,” Bridget said, flipping through some dresses and checking out Vivi as if she were imagining her in each. “We’re going to have to go with yellow. That’s Cara’s signature color.”
Of course it was. The one color—okay, two, counting pink—that would never be found in Viviana Angelino’s closet. She eyed a row of shoes with heels higher than the Prudential Building, including three pairs of thigh-high boots.
“Does she still wear those boots?”
Bridget laughed softly. “As often as possible. Exposed might have bombed at the box office, but it made a star out of Cara Ferrari.”
And gave millions of young men—and FBI agents—a thrill they would obviously never forget.
Bridget pulled down a lemon-colored one-shouldered
knit thing. Too short to be a dress, too long to be a shirt. “This’ll work.”
Work as what? A handkerchief?
Forty-five minutes later, after the total invasion of personal space called “hair and makeup,” Vivi stepped into the dress and slid into the boots halfway up her thigh. And still they didn’t reach the hem of the little bit of yellow fabric.
She turned to the mirror and sucked in a soft breath.
“I know, right?” Bridget said. “You totally look like her. It’s kind of creepy. In a good way.”
She did look like Cara, but that wasn’t why she gasped. The strangest sensation rolled through her, a quick kick of sex and power. Two things she rarely equated with her own reflection.
And she liked it. Whoa. Wasn’t expecting that.
Was that why women dressed like this? Because it made them feel sexy and strong? She’d always thought it was just a plea for attention, a red flag in front of a bull.
Or, in this case, a yellow flag. For caution.
She put her hands on her hips and shook the long-haired wig over her shoulders.
Take that, Colton Cautious Lang.
She’d be sure to give him a picture when this was all over. Let him fantasize about that instead of Cara’s sleazy stripper movie. The thought gave her a downright unnatural thrill.
Bridget reached into her pocket for a buzzing cell phone to check the incoming text. “She’s on her way. Stay here. Don’t move a muscle until I open the door.”
“As if I could. I’m so pinned, glued, painted, and stuck I’m immobilized.”
Bridget grinned as she gave Vivi a quick once-over, her keen, critical eye looking for flaws. “I’m not sure even I could tell you’re not Cara.” She studied her face and tilted her head. “Up close, yeah, your nose is different and your teeth need some work.”
Vivi smiled. “Thanks.”
“Just don’t get too close to anyone and you’ll be a perfect match. We’ve never even had a body or stunt double who looked so much like her.”
She left and Vivi took one more look in the mirror, giving some sass with her shoulder and testing her stability in the heels. Only a moment passed before she heard footsteps on the stairs up to the dressing room.
Stella jumped up and waddled to the door.
“What is this surprise, Bridget?” a voice said as the door opened. The dog barked excitedly, standing on her hind legs to greet a woman who looked eerily like the one Vivi had been admiring in the mirror.
Dressed in a dark business suit for her role as a prosecuting attorney, Cara Ferrari blinked once and let her jaw drop as she scooped up the dog without taking her eyes off Vivi.
“Jesus Christ on a hot dog bun.” Her voice was lower, smoother, softer than Vivi’s. “That is fucking amazing.”
“My name is Viviana Angelino,” Vivi said, extending her hand. “I own a protection and private investigation firm in Boston. I have a proposal for you, Ms. Ferrari. I’d like to be your—”
“Body double,” she whispered, leaning against the doorjamb as if she needed support, ignoring the offered hand. “Yes, oh God in heaven, yes. Bridget, is this your idea?”
“Her idea,” Bridget offered. “I just helped her get to you, Cara.”
Cara just stared. “I take it you want to ‘be’ me if I win on Sunday night?”
“That would be the plan, if you’d be willing to work with me.”
“Oh, I’m willing.”
Vivi lifted a brow. “Don’t you even want to know the cost?”
Cara closed her eyes, the lids as heavily made up as Vivi’s, her mouth downturned. “The cost is astronomical if I don’t do something like this,” she said.
Vivi mentally doubled her fee and resisted the urge to pump her still unshaken fist in the air.
“Get back up and turn around,” she ordered, twirling her finger. Vivi returned to the platform and rotated as directed.
“Wow,” Cara said.
“With me as your double, Ms. Ferrari, you would be completely safe.”
Cara considered that, eyes on Vivi while she kissed the dog’s head. “But what’s in it for you? Why would you want to be me if someone wants me dead?”
“I run a professional security firm called the Guardian Angelinos,” Vivi answered. “And like I said, you haven’t asked my fee.”
Cara tilted her head and gave a wistful smile, a well-known expression the camera loved. “There’s always more to it than money. As an artist, a character’s motivation is of paramount importance to me.”
“I believe that this assignment could allow our business to greatly expand.”
“A private security business?” Cara asked quickly. “Not associated with any law enforcement agency?”
Was that a trick question? “We’re completely private,” she said. “It’s a family business, as you might tell from the name.” Encouraged by Cara’s nod, Vivi continued, “I want it to succeed, so that my family can continue to work together and grow the business. Family’s important to me.”
Cara smiled. “I understand that. Clever name, too, the Guardian Angelinos.”
“And we’re qualified,” Vivi added, knowing this was a job interview despite the bizarre circumstances of being on a platform in a banana-colored napkin for a dress. “Although my brother, cousins, and I only started the business about six months ago, we’ve already amassed some excellent references.” Would Lang give her a reference?
“You’ve invested quite a bit in this company, I imagine.”
“Of course.” Vivi turned to maintain eye contact as Cara slowly walked around the raised platform, petting the dog, scrutinizing Vivi.
“Well, let’s start with the bad news, then,” Cara said.
Damn. “Hit me.”
“If you screw up, your business will fold.”
For the first time, Vivi wobbled slightly on her high heels. “I have no intention of making a mistake.”
“I have very strict stipulations,” she said, her enunciation letter perfect. “If you follow them, we’re fine. If you don’t, I’ll suck the life out of you, your business, your family, and everything else I can get my hands on.”
Whoa, seriously? Yes, seriously. This lady was so not kidding.
“Are you familiar with a nondisclosure agreement, Ms. Angelino?”
“Of course.”
“Anyone who works for me, around me, with me, or near me is expected to sign one,” she said, continuing her predatory circle around Vivi. “In this case, under these very unusual circumstances, the penalty for breaking that nondisclosure will be a flat ten million dollars. And I will get it from you or your business if I have to put a lien on everything you own or ever will own, or anything your family owns or ever will own. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Her brother would love that.
“Is it?” Cara volleyed back. “Because there is a bright side to working for me, and that would be that if you do succeed in making the world believe you are me and if the truth is not leaked out to any media, law enforcement, or otherwise nosy party for the duration of one month following the Academy Awards, assuming I win, then…”
Vivi felt her hands fist in anticipation, the seconds dragging out as Cara no doubt timed the delivery of her next line for maximum impact.
“Then I will pay you one million dollars.”
Vivi almost fell off the heels. One million dollars? And she’d been ready to ask for a hundred grand. “That would be”—life changing—“excellent.”
“Do we have a deal, then? On my terms?”
Did they ever. Vivi stepped down, without so much as a wobble in the boots. Her gaze was direct as she reached out her hand one more time. “We do. And I give you my word that every aspect of this assignment will be treated with the utmost confidentiality.”
“I don’t need your word,” Cara said. “I’ll take ten million dollars and ruin you if you fail. Both our lives are at risk here, Miss Angelino.”
“I’m not afraid of risks,�
� Vivi said honestly. “I live for them.”
“Good.” Cara shook her hand. “I hope you don’t die for them, too.”
• • •
Colt had to stop coming to the Newton Commonwealth Golf Course on Sundays, even if it hadn’t snowed in six weeks and the fairways weren’t frozen. Last week’s trip to the skate park had been a nice diversion, but every time he came back here, he slipped into a place he didn’t want to be.
He remembered happier rounds of golf, with a lot of laughter, a lot of love. A woman who played with heart—and a life snuffed out before it really had a chance to be lived.
Why didn’t he insist on a different course?
Because his three golfing buddies loved this course and had no idea what was going on in his head. Just like at the office, they assumed he was just an unemotional hard-ass on his way up and out. Especially out.
His cell phone buzzed as they loaded their clubs into the cart.
“Shit, Colt, if that’s work we’re going to go get a sub before we tee off,” one of his friends said.
“Could be a break in the Charlestown robberies,” he said, pulling out the phone. “Let me just get someone out…” His voice trailed off as he read the ID.
Federal Bureau of Investigation Los Angeles. Yes.
“Sorry, guys. Start the first hole without me.” Without listening to their complaints, he strode away. Finally, the offer call.
“Mr. Lang, please hold for Assistant Director Joseph Gagliardi,” a woman commanded. This was the call he’d been waiting for.
In a matter of weeks he could golf on some memory-free course in L.A.
“Are you in a private location, Mr. Lang?” Gagliardi asked without preamble.
Would he need to be secluded to accept the offer? “I can be, Mr. Gagliardi,” he assured his potential new boss. They were on a first-name basis by now, but if Joe was going formal, Colt would follow his lead.
He cut through the clubhouse to the parking lot, his steps determined, his need to hear the words that he’d been promoted to SAC in L.A. burning.
Face of Danger Page 3
